


racing from the battlefield

by vannral



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannral/pseuds/vannral
Summary: Maybe the young man catches Caleb's expression, the panic, the horror, because he pales and lets out a shriek.”DESERTER! MURDERER! YOU KILLED HIM, YOU KILLED MY FATHER!”and with that, he leaps toward Caleb, an old, old sword flying from the sheath.Caleb's past catches up to him after twenty years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so sorry for possible spamming, I had some technical difficulties with AO3, I tried to upload this earlier before my trip but - dunno if it’s on my end, but anyway, I finally got this up! 
> 
> I played with the ‘ caleb was a war mage’ - theory / aspect a bit, i hope you like it?

It’s a clear, crisp morning.

The autumn has turned to winter; the windows are frosted over, glimmering in the early, pale light. The fields behind the yard fence are covered by untouched snow fields. Frumpkin sniffs the front door with obvious distaste and jumps on Caleb’s shoulders like a warm shawl.

    “It is not your thing, I know, but I do need to step outside a bit,” Caleb says, scratching him behind the ears.

Frumpkin meows and burrows into Caleb’s neck, obviously with no intention to leave his comfortable spot.  

_Well, all right then,_ Caleb thinks with a sigh, puts on warm boots and steps outside to the porch.

    ”Widogast? Caleb Widogast?”

Frumpkin hisses, digs his claws into Caleb’s shoulder, and Caleb stiffens. By the porch steps, stands a thin young man in worn travel clothes and feverish eyes. He has a gaunt look about him, exhausted and somewhat -  _unsettled._

He looks like he’s been standing there a while, and unpleasant weight curls in Caleb’s stomach.

_(he’s not from the village, caleb would’ve recognized him.)_

    ”Who is asking?” he asks neutrally, his hand frozen on the doorknob.

The man’s nostrils flare, and his mouth is pinched into a tight line. He stares at Caleb, unblinking and  _wide._

    ”You  _are_ him. Widogast.” He swallows, shaking all over, and now, his eyes hold a wild, manic gleam. ”You were there. On the battlefield, the eastern front, twenty years ago.”

Caleb’s blood turns to ice.

_Oh no -_

_(it’s caught up, it’s here, after so many years - )_

Maybe the young man catches his expression,  _the panic, the horror,_ because he pales and lets out a shriek.

    ” _DESERTER! MURDERER! YOU KILLED HIM, YOU KILLED MY FATHER!”_ and with that, he  _leaps_ toward Caleb, an old,  _old_  sword flying from the sheath.

In a flash, the sword’s blade almost touches Caleb’s throat, and  _another_ blade points directly at the young man’s chest.

Hell hath no fury like Fjord’s protective instincts.

    ”Get that blade hell away from him,” Fjord’s familiar, deep voice rumbles beside Caleb. ” _Now.”_

The young man heaves shallow gasps. ”No. I - I  _won’t._  He’s _a deserter,_ a goddamn coward - I’ve  _hunted_ you, you snivelling back-stabbing,  _you left him there_   _to die - !”_

    ”Back off of him _,”_ Fjord growls, and now his voice takes a dangerous edge. ”‘m not kiddin’,  _son. Now.”_

It takes a beat. They stare at each other, the man and Fjord.

And finally, the young man hesitates and pulls back the sword, his knuckles white.

Caleb barely breathes.

    ”You are right,” he says quietly. ”I did.”

Tears gather into the young man’s eyes, furious and  _bitter._ ”You left my father to die.”

    ” _Ja,_ I did. I’ll never stop being sorry for it.”

    “What good does  _that do?”_ the young man screams hysterically at him, tears spilling on his sunken cheeks. “It doesn’t do shit! He’s still dead! You’re still here drawing breath and he isn’t! You left him there, my  _dad,_ you were supposed to have their backs, you  _coward, and you didn’t!”_

Caleb squeezes his eyes shut. It’s been so  _long,_ and the horror, the  _disgust, self-hatred_ is still there, inside him, rotting,  _a wound that does not heal._

    “I did. Nothing that I say or do will ever change that,” he says and his voice is  _breaking_ under all that steadiness that he desperately tries to hold up.

    “My Dad didn’t fucking deserve that - he was a good man,  _he was devoted to us and you let him get killed!_ He was  _a good man!”_

    “Most of them were,” Caleb agrees softly. “But the war is not kind to anyone - especially to good men.”  _I am not. I am not one of them._ He’s not worthy enough to join them, to count himself among them, that much he knows. Too much blood on his hands. “What do you want me to do, young man? I cannot bring him back. I cannot change what’s been done.”

    “I could  _kill_ you,” the  _boy_ gasps, his eyes too bright, bulging in the sockets. His trembling hand grasps the hilt, twitching. “I could kill you and make this right  _because you deserve it_ and he didn’t, and  _then at least there would be some kind of justice!”_

Fjord tenses and opens his mouth, probably to defend Caleb, but Caleb just nods.

    “You could,” he murmurs. “You could kill me. And at one point in my life, I would’ve wanted nothing more than that.”

Fjord makes a painful,  _rough_ sound in the back of his throat. “ _Caleb - “_

    “You don’t  _deserve_ this,” the boy spits and nods his head toward the house in disgust. “The nice house. The garden.” He narrows his eyes at Fjord. “A  _companion._ You don’t deserve  _any of it.”_

He knows it. He thinks the same on some days, but to hear it, so blatantly -

It hits Caleb brutally on the chest, knocks air out of him, it  _digs_ into the deepest, most private part of his mind where his agony lies,  _and it’s the truth,_ but Caleb keeps his composure, no matter how cracking,  _how breaking it is._

    “No, I do not,” he admits. “I do not deserve anything. There are things - “ He hesitates. “It is not up to me to judge. I will be condemned in the end. But I ran. And they died. So now I’m living with this guilt, clawing myself to the shore to  _stay_ alive and do  _better_ than what I did before _._ It is not fair, I know, it does not fix anything, I  _know,_  but this way, I will make sure I will not run away from people’s suffering again. It is what I owe to  _them._ ”

The boy  _stares_ at him, his thin chest heaving with uneven, jerky movements. “I wanted you to suffer,” he whimpers. “I wanted to  _kill_ you.”

    “I know. And I do not think you were so wrong.”

The boy’s lips tremble. “Why did you survive and my Dad didn’t?”

He sounds so  _young,_ fragile _._

  “Because I was a coward,” Caleb says gently. “And your father was not. He did his duty like a good man, like a good soldier. I am sorry he died.”

    “You don’t deserve to be  _alive.”_

    “I know.”

The young man draws in a stuttering inhale, closes his eyes and straightens. “I wanted to kill you. I wanted to put  _his_ sword through you and watch you breathe your  _last,_ gurgle and a whine like a rabid dog  _\- “_

    “That’s enough _,_ you’re treadin’ on some very  _thin ice_   _\- “_ Fjord growls, his protective instincts rising, and Caleb sighs. The boy is not wrong, after all, but Fjord doesn’t like when people bad-mouth him.

The lad throws him a nasty, furious glare. “I wanted to kill you,” he repeats, just to spite Fjord. “Be the one to avenge my father. But you don’t get that kind of mercy, I get it now that I’ve seen  _you._ You deserve to be tortured by your _guilt,_ until that very last moment until the gods plunge you to  _hell.”_

All the colour drains from Caleb’s face.

He does not believe in gods, but looking at this young man’s pale, vengeful face, his twisted mouth, sunken eyes burning with utter  _hate,_ it is what he deserves.

He murmurs: “Then what are you going to do?”

For a long,  _long_ time, he’s been terrified of death - then guilty for feeling like that, because it’s what he  _deserves,_ after all _-_ his troops were just as terrified on the eastern front, in that carnage and blood-soaked horror, what right does he have for feeling the same?

After he ran?

_Now it’s caught up with him._

The young man lifts his chin up defiantly, his lip curled in  _disgust._

    “You’re less than garbage. Absolutely  _nothing._ I do not want your blood on my father’s sword to taint it. To taint what’s left of  _him._ I hope you suffer till your last day and I  _hope_ the guilt chokes you, and I  _hope_ it will be painful and I hope you will pray for death and that it will not be  _a quick death_. I hope I will  _never_ see you again.”

With that, the young man turns, knuckles turned white as he clutches the sword and he walks through the garden-gate.

And they watch him disappear behind the trees.

Instantly Fjord turns to Caleb.

  “Caleb -  _Caleb,_ darlin’ - ? Hey, look at me - “

Numb, trembling, Caleb does and tries to breathe. His whole chest feels like a  _void,_ hollow and painful crashing into his ribs. Fjord wraps his arms around him,  _safe and warm,_ and slowly, it grounds Caleb in this moment.

    “Hey, hey, easy, ‘s okay, he’s gone… _breathe…”_

Caleb does. It’s raspy and  _ragged,_ but he does. Eventually, tension eases from his limbs.

    “I did not expect that,” he whispers, but Fjord hears him, nonetheless. He always does. “I mean, I should have guessed, but… I did not expect it.”

    “Reckon no one did,” Fjord grunts, his voice deep and  _low_ just beside Caleb’s ear. “Breathe, your heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

It takes a while, but finally,  _finally_ Caleb stops trembling.

  “We don’t have to talk ‘bout it,” Fjord grunts, his calloused hand resting on Caleb’s stomach, warm and  _safe,_ “but you didn’t tell him the truth, either.”

    “It would not have changed anything in his eyes,” Caleb murmurs. “He wasn’t wrong, not in a way that would make a difference in the end. But I wasn’t the only one, and it wasn’t clear-cut - no, this - this sounds like I’m making excuses, I do not want to do that.”

Fjord presses a firm kiss on Caleb’s nape. “Yeah,” he grunts. “I get it. ‘s okay. ‘m here.”

    “For some strange reason.”

    “You’re not drivin’ me away, Caleb.”

And Caleb has tried, once upon a time. He tried, convinced that Fjord would be happier without him,  _without this baggage and guilt and shame, nightmares and anxiety_ ,but back then, Fjord refused.

And here, he refuses now.

Caleb relaxes, melts against Fjord’s chest.

    “You’re gettin’  _better,_ Cay,” Fjord murmurs against his skin. “You’re doin’ so good. It was  _hell_ there, goddamn slaughter, everybody fuckin’ knows that. You were  _younger_ than that _guy_  was.”

    “You don’t need to make excuses for me, Fjord, it’s my burden to bear, not yours…”  

    “To hell with that, I have your back, ‘s how it goes. But reality is always more brutal than people think, an’ we can just do what we can in the moment. ‘n you’re doin’ your best right now. You  _help_ people.”

Caleb exhales, shuddering. “I try. And it does not undo a damn thing that I’ve done before, but at least my life will have some positive impact on  _someone.”_

    “Yeah. Mine, for instance, just so we’re clear on that.”

    “Stop that, you are making this  _worse,”_ Caleb scolds him, but reaches to tug Fjord’s hair a bit, absent-minded and fond.  

    “No, ‘m not.”

    “No, you’re not.”

Fjord tightens his hold around Caleb’s waist, and it’s a simple moment. They are both so incredibly  _weary;_ tired after fighting so many battles, after having  _lost_ so much during the years - they are both scarred and  _raw_ inside, but they have reached this point of serenity together.

This beautiful,  _shining_ moment of peace.

    “Fjord?”

    “Yeah?”

    “I have no intention to die before my time,  _Schatz.”_

Fjord’s amber eyes darken as Caleb turns in his arms, to gaze at him with solemn promise reflecting back at him.

In response, Fjord runs his thumb on Caleb’s cheekbone. “Yeah?”

    “Mmh. It was… a long time ago. A lonelier, more desperate time when I had nothing. I do not wish for death anymore.”  

    “You’d tell me if that changes?”

The delicate laughter lines around Caleb’s eyes soften. “I would,” he murmurs, and it’s genuine,  _it’s a promise._ He leans to nuzzle Fjord affectionately “Thank you.”

    “What for?”

    “For not - “ Caleb hesitates, just a bit. “For not flinching away.”

    “Caleb. I’ve seen you on your best ‘n on your fuckin’ lowest. That did nothin’ to turn me away and this screamin’kid swingin’ an old sword should somehow fuckin’ do that? No, not happenin’. I’m with you.”

Caleb hums, reaches to grip the back of Fjord’s neck and tilts his head as he watches Fjord with such affection, such quietly simmering  _adoration_. “Too good, Fjord,” he murmurs.

  “Nah, you’re givin’ me too much credit, I’d call it bein’ selfish as hell.”

    “Well, I’ll take it.”

Fjord presses a kiss on his lips, slow and reassuring.  _It’s okay. Breathe. You’re safe with me._ The half-orc nudges Caleb gently with his nose.

    “What can I do?” he murmurs, his voice deepening a little.

  “Oh, this will pass. It is nothing new,” Caleb answers and squeezes Fjord’s hand. “Let’s just… go back inside,  _ja?_ ”

Fjord rubs his thumb across Caleb’s knuckles. “Yeah, got’cha.”

+


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The after-math. Fjord and Caleb talk about what happened twenty years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went differently than I thought. Uh, please enjoy?

When they get inside the safety of their own house, Caleb can feel each year in his bones. Creaking, old, painful, _weak._

Exhaustion is a heavy weight, his skin is paper-thin and chills rise to his neck.

Fjord leans in to press a kiss on Caleb’s neck again. Warmth spreads slowly to Caleb’s chest, to his limbs.

     “Sit down, I’ll bring you somethin’,” Fjord murmurs.

     “No alcohol, please.”

A snort. “Yeah, ‘course. Want somethin’ to eat?”

     “No, thank you.”  

Caleb burrows himself into his arm chair; it’s comfy, _cozy,_ and he can just sink into it and relax.

The fire crackles, spitting embers to the chimney, and the warm orange glow of the flames flicker.

_This is home. Their home._

_You are safe here._ How often Fjord says that to him. How often Caleb _does_ believe him.

But now... seeing that young man’s furious eyes, _the hate in them,_ old grudge twisting his features _..._ How willing he was to kill Caleb. Without hesitation, vengeful and full of righteous rage.  

 _Not that I do not deserve it,_ he thinks grimly and rubs his forehead. He doubts things would have been the same if _he_ was in the young man’s shoes. Mercy is sometimes a double-edged sword, he muses, as the young man no doubt intended it to be.

     “Hey,” Fjord murmurs, squeezing Caleb’s nape with his rough palm. “You with me?”

     “ _Ja,_ always. Oh, tea?”

     “Kinda wanted to put a bit of whisky in it, but nah, gotta settle for some honey.”

Fjord kneels in front of him, his gaze observing Caleb closely. He looks worried, on edge.

     “Stop doing that, I am fine,” Caleb admonishes him gently, takes a sip of his tea and this time it’s chamomille with sweet honey.

Fjord makes a grunt in his throat. “Yeah, ‘n a kid just didn’t attack you on our own goddamn porch out of nowhere.”

Caleb leans in to rest his forehead against Fjord’s; it’s simple intimacy, such a simple comfort, just as intimate as kissing on some days.

     “Like I said, he was not wrong.” He reaches to brush gently Fjord’s jawline. “Thank you.”

He knows Fjord is worried - inside, Caleb is rattled, that is true, but he doesn’t want to ruin the day. He just sips his tea, gently scolds Fjord and then, they return to their chores. He knows Fjord is keeping an eye on him - he doesn’t hover, but he’s nearby in case Caleb needs something.

_Anything. Comfort, support, anything he’s willing to give._

Caleb focuses on working. Doing manual work sooths his frayed nerves a bit, makes him focus.

(he counts. alchemic formulas, counts to calm himself, counts herbs, minerals.)

But it’s not quite enough to forget those furious eyes and that old sword.

+

Of course such promises - especially ones regarding one’s well-being - often do not hold up.

And in daylight things are rarely not so bad. But when the night falls... that is quite another story.

The next night Caleb is plunged into nightmares. He runs, runs, _runs,_ through blazing hellfire, through suffocating smoke, agonized screams, the ground is wet with blood and tears and the war mage uniform is dirty and burning from his skin -

_\- no, no, no -_

_please -_

     ‘HELP US!’

     ‘MAGES! HELP US!’

And in the middle, the young man with bright eyes and with the old sword, snarls: “YOU SHOULD’VE HAD THEIR BACKS AND YOU DIDN’T!”

_Why did you survive and my Dad didn’t? You don’t deserve any of this!_

Crying, hysterical sobbing, distorted voices - _no, no, i’m so sorry -_

     “ - aleb? Caleb! Wake up!”

Caleb jolts awake, his skin clammy with cold sweat, hot blood rushing in his ears, _thump-thump,_ and he stares wildly to the darkness - no fire, no screaming, _no mangled bodies -_

Fjord’s risen to rest on his elbow, his golden eyes gleaming in the darkness, and Caleb remembers, _oh. I’m home._

     “Hey, hey, darlin’,” Fjord murmurs, his voice rough from sleep. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t touch Caleb, but his hand hovers close, just in case Caleb wants to be touched.

Swallowing thickly, Caleb turns to look at him, his breathing harsh in his throat, his fingers clutching the blanket.

     “ _Ja._ I - I can.”

     “Can I touch you? Would that be okay?”

He always _asks._ It’s sweet, one of those little things that Caleb adores about Fjord. 

Caleb gives a shaky nod, and instantly, he reaches for Fjord, welcoming his warm, calloused touch, melts into it, into his familiar, safe embrace. Fjord smells of clean laundry, pine wood and tea leaves, _home._

They curl into each other, lying on the bed, limbs tangled on crumpled sheets.

The half-orc hums, buries his fingers into Caleb’s hair, carding his fingers through it, stroke his nape so gently.

     “I saw it,” Caleb chokes, clinging onto Fjord.

     “Saw what, hon?”

Caleb draws another ragged breath, closes his eyes. “The eastern front. The battle. In my dream.”

     “Yeah?” Fjord murmurs, shifting a bit to accommodate their new positions, but he doesn’t stop petting the back of Caleb’s neck.

     “They flanked us from the forest. A surprise attack. We did not see them. _I_ did not see them. Most likely a camouflage illusion covering their tracks and movements.”

Fjord bites back a curse, and Caleb continues.

     “They overwhelmed us - we had suffered losses the day before - fever and disease ravaging through the men. They attacked us, tore through the front line. They all fell like _hay.”_

_Scythes cutting them in half._

Caleb’s fingers tremble. “They did not even have the time to realize what happened to them,” he says, old grief, old pain surfacing once again. “They just _died.”_

Fjord presses his lips on Caleb’s hair, warm and comforting. Caleb sighs, running his fingers absent mindedly on Fjord’s collarbone, on thin white scars there, to ground himself.

     “We could not win,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “We were outnumbered. It was not a fair battle, we were not equal in any way. They did not take captives. They just...”

_The scent of blood is heavy on the air, Caleb remembers choking on it._

A violent shudder goes through him, and Fjord grips him tighter.

     “’m sorry, Caleb. I remember hearin’ it was slaughter.”

     “It was.” Caleb swallows. “I tried. For a while. Flung fire balls from the back. I did get few of them. But our troops... they were overwhelmed. And then they died. And I - I froze.”   

His next exhale is jagged. “Johan. Karl. Emil. Sigrun. Aksel. Magnus. Henrik. Lukas. All died. And  I remember all of them.”

Unseeing eyes, dead and _not here anymore._

Shaking, Caleb clenches his teeth, grinds his molars together, grief and terror tearing through him, and Fjord holds him.

     “’m here. ‘m here. ‘s okay.”

     “They died, and I _ran.”_ It comes out as a strangled, broken sob, and Fjord presses kisses on his hair. “Fjord - I _ran,_ do you understand _\- “_

And that is the truth.

     “I do. Thank you for tellin’ me. But you gotta know, that doesn’t make me think less of you, not ever.” Fjord tilts gently Caleb’s head up. “You were - what, eighteen? Nineteen? You were just a kid, Caleb. An’ seein’ that kinda horror, to witness that kinda massacre first hand, how the hell can anyone think or act clearly in that moment? It was _human.”_

Hot tears well in Caleb’s eyes as he looks at Fjord, this person, his _partner._ His companion in this life.

     “It is my shame and my burden,” he manages to say. “At one point, before, I wished I had died with them.”

Fjord doesn’t quite still, but he examines Caleb under eyebrows. “’m glad you didn’t.”

     “ _Ja._ M - me, too _._ I was not lying to you yesterday, _Schatz_. This - this is good now. Our life. It is good, and I love it. I love _you._ And I would not switch this for anything.” He rests his forehead against Fjord’s chest.

He can feel the steady, calming rhythm of Fjord’s heart. “Some days I feel guilty. For enjoying this so much, when my troops did not make it out. When they died in agony and I did not. When I was not enough to be better help. Perhaps it will never stop in my head. But this is so good, Fjord. And I _am_ happy with you, for what’s it worth.”

Fjord brushes his thumb under Caleb’s jaw, gentle and firm. “Thank you for tellin’ me. For trustin’ me with this, I know it must’ve been devastating and terrifying. ‘n I’m here for you, till my last breath, Caleb. I’ll always have your back.”

Caleb goes almost limp with utter relief and burrows into Fjord. “Thank you. I love you, so much.”

Fjord hums - the low sound vibrates from his chest, and it’s comforting to feel.

     “Love ya, too, Caleb.”

It will never stop being a precious gift to Caleb.

He wraps his thin arms under Fjord’s arms to his back and just lets himself to drown into this closeness, warmth and searches for Fjord’s mouth in the darkness.

Fjord kisses him back.

They have shared many kisses during their time together; passionate, heated and hungry, open-mouthed and _messy._ But this one is slow, almost chaste. It’s a kiss of understanding, companionship and devotion for each other.

Warm, chapped lips move together, tasting, pouring themselves empty to comfort, to _hold._ It’s so sweet, so touching that Caleb squeezes his eyes shut, tears burning him.   

_My good comrades,_

_I’m sorry I ran._

_I’m sorry you all suffered painful deaths._

_I’m sorry I was not stronger or braver to die there beside you._

_I will beg for your forgiveness in the afterlife._

_With this life that I still live despite my shame, I’m trying to be better and make amends. It will not change anything, I know, but at least this way my wretched life will leave some goodness in this world, no matter how little._

And that’s all he can do, all he can strive for.

It’s taken a long time, twenty years, but he can see a future ahead. It might not be terribly bright or extraordinary, but it’s his future that he shares with Fjord.

And it’s a good future.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **lasciel** for getting me all inspired!  
>  (although i pictured a bit fluffier outcome, and this got way darker than i imagined. at least there's a kiss?) :D

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a bit rough and unpolished, but I had fun trying something different. Emotions are hard, man.


End file.
